Month: August 2008

As a wee little Crissy I was always the first one to fall asleep at sleepover parties and the other sweet little cherubs tortured me. One time I woke up with cheetos crushed in my hair and a waste basket on my head and I also know from personal experience that sticking a sleeping person’s hand in warm water makes them pee in their Smurfette sleeping bag.

Do we understand why Crissy loves her vodka now?

The emotional scars run mighty deep people.

I’ve been to doctors like a millionty hundred times and had test after test until I thought my doctor was secretly a vampire and was just drinking the shit instead of testing it. As it turns out there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me. Everything is fine which lead her to assume that I must have a sleeping issue and so referred me to some sleep specialist dude who looked exactly like the husband in Sleeping with the Enemy. I shit you not.

Needless to say I did not go through with the sleep study. I prefer to self medicate with drugs and booze a healthy diet and regular exercise anyway so the doctor can just eat shit. Or drink my blood or come to my house and stalk me in my sleep or whatever.

But this is frustrating as hell because all I want, all I have ever wanted is to not feel like I’m 80.

I drag myself through my day and all I want to do at the end of it is read my book or stare at the tee-vee and do nothing. Except maybe all that stuff with a bag or doritos and a hot fudge sundae. And someone needs to feed it to me because I’m too tired to move.

And that leads us to the second thing Crissy wants today. Crissy wants all of her exercising and eating well and downing diet pills like Popeye downs the spinach taking care of herself to pay off by actually making her feel healthy.

But no.

I still feel 80.

So Mister suggested I take this handy little quiz, which I did and here is my report card:

And so great news! I’m really 11.8 years old!

Actually I can believe that mentally I am 11 because all I want are tap shoes, a new bike, and more time during the day to play Barbies. And I really just want hot fudge sundaes for dinner every night.

Crissy wants anything she sees on the infomercials because when she wakes up at the vag crack of dawn every day, that’s all that’s on. And you tend to be gullible at 5am. At least Crissy does.

And now Crissy has a hanerking, a desire, a yearnin’ for the following products which are certain to improve her life in ways she never imagined possible.

First up are these little beauties:

Because Crissy does not think her fiber cereal is doing enough to help her clean her colon so it’s either this stuff or a pipe cleaner. Mister has already generously volunteered the use of his-oh forget it! Let’s just say that Crissy would rather use the Dual Action Colon Cleansing System than take it in the pooper. She only does that on Very Special Nights.

Oh! And I want this!

If this shit can make me look as awesome as Jane Seymore does after having eleventy billion kids and an acting career that spans like, centuries, then sign me up bitch!I’ll take two!

And how can I live without this for another second?

It takes baby powder off the floor in a Jiffy! And look how happy she is! She’s just all “I’m a cleanin’, uh-huh, with my shark-y, oh ye-ah, and you don’t have one, na-uh, cuz you su-uck.” I don’t want to suck. I want to STEAM! Because I never roll around on the floor like I should and it’s only cuz it isn’t Shark Steam Mop clean!

And I don’t know when I’ll find the time to watch this, but I still want it.

Does it not look fucking hilarious? I think it even comes with a Martini and a Lucky Strike. How can you go wrong Queefs?

You can’t.

You cannot go wrong with the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts.

And just in case I ever get The Acne I’ll have to have a supply of this on hand:

It’s glamorous because all the slightly crazy celebrities like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson and I think Britney Spears use it. Not that Britney Spears is only slightly crazy. She’s a fucking giant Super Size bag of crazy, but you know. Her skin is okay.

Ugh. So many things that I want, you guys.

This is exactly why Crissy does not watch QVC. No matter how tempting it is to shop from her bed, she will not allow herself to do it because once Crissy has tasted paradise you will never hear from her again and she will become one of those pathetic trailer park ladies sitting in her brown and gold plaid Barcalounger with a Misty hanging out of her mouth and a can of Natural Light in her hand at 5am.

And when we brought the girls to be fit for their dancing shoes Crissy got a little nostalgic for the days when she was just a wee little Crissy and spent Saturday mornings in tap and ballet classes.

She just loved her tap shoes and she would flap-tap-tap on the kitchen floor until her mother’s ears bled.

Good times…

And so I tell my friend Lynne that I want to take tap lessons and she tells me tap is gay.

Well, that’s sort of the point. I get to tap my heart out and be Crissy of the Dance AND possibly meet a nice gay. How fun would that be? Tons of fun, Queefs. Tons. But here’s what stuck in my craw. Lynne takes Jazzercize for Jehovah’s sake! I’m talking the kind with Jazz hands and the whole shebang. That’s gayer, I think.

And so it started the following cacophony of eecards.

And then she came out of her office and handed me this:

And now we can’t decide what is gayest. Tap, Jazzercise, having an argument via eecards, or holding a Gay-Off at the library.

(I’m trying to think of a good name for you guys. Forgive me while I try a few things out.)

Anyhoot, Welcome to Crissy Wants Week!™

We haven’t done a theme week in ages and it’s high time we get back in business around here. I want no more pussying around with random crap. We’re going to beat shit to death from now on.

Or at least for this week we will.

Crissy wants so many things, you guys.

So. Many. Things.

And today I would like to tell you about how Crissy wants Mister to stop embarrassing her in front of her friends because he’s always doing it and it drives her nuts.

For example, this weekend we were having a lovely time with the neighbors and having a few drinkies and ridiculing and laughing at our children enjoying watching our children play together when Mister comes running into the room with a packet of Gas-X and excitedly exclaims “Crissy! Look! I found more of your Gas-X! I knew you couldn’t have gone through that much of it already!”

Now you Intertubbies know that Crissy’s life is pretty much an open book, but seriously?

Do people need to know that Crissy gets The Gas sometimes?

Not The Farting, but The Gas.

Crissy is far too much the delicate flower to have The Farting.

It’s her fiber cereal that does it and by the end of the day it combines with her healthy vegetarian and fruititarian diet and it makes her tummy a little, ahem, ENORMOUS and she feels like she’s carrying a baby beluga in her belly and so she needs a little help to feel better.

But she doesn’t need Mister telling everyone about it.

He might as well have come running into the room with a box of this:

or a box of this

or something.

(Note to the Cybernets: Crissy has neither The Crotch Rot nor The Hemorrhoids. These products are merely examples of the kinds of things Mister might use to humiliate her in front of her friends.)

And while we’re at it, I would also like to request that Mister stop telling people things like, “Crissy isn’t feeling good today. She’s on her period.” or “Crissy can’t come to the phone right now, she’s taking a shadooie.” I just think the QOFE’s proper functions should be shared on a need to know basis only.

So that is my want for today and if Mister doesn’t lock it up, I’m going to be forced to tell the QUEEFS (OMFG!! I’m totally calling you guys QUEEFS from now on!) about how he likes to keep light bulbs and cans of soda and things up his bum.

I’ve been thinking that in addition to my House Bitch I’m going to have to have an entourage too.

Now I know that all a you Internets are an entourage of sorts and I love, love, love that, really I do and if I could have sweaty sex with every last one of you I would, but I sort of would like a real entourage too. Like one so big we have to have one of these:

And I think that my entourage should include some flamboyant gay men.

Sort of like this fine fellow:

Can’t you just picture us walking into Whole Foods together?

With Girlfriend sitting in the grocery cart like the Queen of Sheba?

It’s like it was meant to be!

But it isn’t.

Sigh.

In all seriouslyness though, Crissy has always loved the gays and thinks that if Kathy Griffin can have a large gay following then so should she.

And I love Madonna just as much as anyone. I even blew the speakers out in my car listening to Hard Candy.

But here’s the sad truth Internettians.

Crissy doesn’t have any gay friends and it makes her sad because it’s very tragic that someone as fabulous as she is so woefully deprived. She almost had a gay friend. His name was Eric and he loved him some Madonna and even had a license plate that said MDONNA and his most favoritest thing was dressing up like her and his skin was sooooo smooth like a baby’s and Crissy was only 18 at the time and she tried to kiss him because she thought he was straight. Because he asked her out on a date and was acting like a straight guy except for the smooth skin thing and it turned out that Nooooooo. Eric was really as gay as the day was long and it lead to a very awkward moment and we never spoke again.

Crissy should have seen the signs of the gayness (I mean HELLO! How many straight guys do you know like to dress up as Madonna?) but Crissy was a stupid girl and she wishes she could talk to Eric again and say she’s sorry for the awkwardness and couldn’t he just come over and we can listen to Madonna and drink wine and make fun of straight guys together? (Sorry straight guys. I love you, but you know you’re really sort of dumb sometimes, right?)

But I don’t know what happened to him.

I’ve always wanted to be a fruit fly, a fag hag, a girl who hangs out at gay bars and comes home covered in glitter and singing “It’s raining men.” That’s what I assume goes on in gay bars but I have no idea, really because I live in white bread, heterosexual, Catholic suburbia where their idea of an alternative lifestyle is driving a car instead of an SUV or a fucking mini van and having only one kid instead of 4. The only gay guys you see around here are the sad and sorry ones who lurk around in the woods at the park.

I’m so over it I could puke.

I needs me some more fabulous and I need it in a hurry because as it turns out the red hair is not quite enough yet.